Gus Shepard stood at his kitchen window, gazing outside at the large doghouse and smiling. He could hear the deputy sheriff’s car backing down the driveway. Poor Shemp. That big dog never hurt a soul. He’d always been a faithful companion and a great watchdog. Shepard loved that pooch. The only time they were apart was when his master went to his job at the mill.
You could see the pair around town almost every day in the old man’s pickup. The sizable mongrel happily stuck his head out the passenger window, his eyes ranging the scenery, jowls flapping in the breeze. Sometimes Shemp preferred his spot in the truck’s bed when the weather was favorable. Gus always gave his pal his choice.
The old guy shook his head in reflection. Thelma had no cause to abuse the hound. Sure, Mrs. Shepard spent her life tormenting her husband, calling him names, berating him to everyone who’d listen. And she never failed to follow her comments with, “Shepard’s in the doghouse, again.” Then came her inane cackle. So the man had become a self-fulfilling prophecy of her contempt. Even the yard had gone to seed. But Shemp–named in tribute to the great, underappreciated Stooge–didn’t deserve her cruelty. To beat him with a stick or something was one thing. However, to flaunt proudly the fact in Gus’s face proved too much. A sinewy little woman, Thelma was pure meanness through and through.
Shemp finally reached the breaking point while Gus was at work one day. His owner came home to find Thelma sprawled in the garage, curtain rod–her weapon of choice–in hand. She’d had much of her throat savagely torn away. Blood covered the front of her frumpy, timeworn bathrobe and the surrounding floor. The big dog cowered nearby, the remnants of his deed clinging to and dripping from his graying muzzle.
In that instant, Gus realized he loved Shemp more than he did Thelma. He wouldn’t let anyone put his old pal down for any reason, least of all because of her. The man fretted for a short while about what to do with the body. He didn’t hold sufficient remorse to admit anything to a soul. Gus decided what to do. After he cleaned his faithful companion and the garage, he packed enough of Thelma’s clothes to make it look good. Afterwards, he started the next phase of his plan.
The couple didn’t have any nearby neighbors. But to be on the safe side, the man waited until dark. He dug for two nights straight. Shemp, seemingly giving his approval of the whole effort, walked the perimeter of the job or stood, sat, and lay by the hole each evening as Gus labored. After each night’s work, he carefully hid the project from view. Finally, after the second night of digging in the sandy loam, the widower had reached a depth of eight feet. The hole’s opening was a four-foot square. Afterwards, the old man ached something fierce. It would be worth it, he told himself. Still, there was more to be done.
On the third night, Gus mixed several large batches of concrete in his wheelbarrow. He poured a portion into the excavation. After the bottom layer had time to harden slightly, he dumped another quarter of the mixture into the hole. Then, he unceremoniously dropped the tightly bound Thelma into the still-soupy mix. Shemp was right by his side, watching the final departure of his nemesis. As her wiry little body sank from view, Gus unloaded the rest of the mix over his “dearly departed.” When the concrete solidified, he finished the project by throwing her clothes on top of the encasement, covering them with the last two feet of dirt. Satisfied with the effort, Mr. Shepard again hid the burial site from view.
Gus called the sheriff to report Thelma missing. A couple of deputies came out to the house. They, like the rest of their little town, were well aware of the disdain his wife held for him. Nonetheless, they gave the place a good going-over, asking him questions as they went. Shepard was certain he had given them answers, which led to the conclusion he wanted them to reach. Watching the officers go through their motions, being followed by a tail-wagging Shemp, the “abandoned” man smiled to himself. The big hound almost seemed to see their visit as a game of hide and seek. When they finished, the lawmen surmised the woman had simply up and left him.
They told Gus they’d file a report showing her missing and presumed to be “a runaway.” With no family on Thelma’s side, there’d be nobody to dispute their conclusion. And the townsfolk? Well, if the people believed her complaints over the years, they’d see it as him getting his just deserts.
Gus relaxed and smiled at the thought of life without Thelma. Only he and Shemp; his wife, a runaway. After the scorn she’d shown him for years in front of everyone, no one would ever doubt she had just had enough and disappeared. But no, he’d buried her right there in poetic justice–under Shemp’s oversized doghouse out back. ©